An Ugly Thing (part 2)
Feb. 17th, 2014 07:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rhiannon_lee in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
birthright_rpgShe skimmed the wall with her back, creeping into the midway place between bedrooms. Duncan’s and hers. Her shoulder nudged a candle sconce and Rhiannon reached up to catch it.
I can’t do this now. I can’t.
What was she to do? Carve symbols into a man and let an innocent girl wake up to his cries for help? Slit his throat and leave him bleeding between his sheets so that Iliana could stumble down the hallway in the morning and find him dead? It wasn’t right, and yet there was little left to Rhiannon to do. Duncan had to go; even if she delivered proof of his wrongdoing to the Council on a silver platter and let them sort through the mess, it didn’t change a simple fact: Rhiannon had been dropped off at his doorstep and now she had to uphold her end of the bargain.
More than that, Rhiannon knew, she no longer wanted the Council to take care of it. She wanted to hurt him. Badly. She needed to make him pay.
She gently jabbed her thigh with the tip of the knife. Its sharpness cut through her jeans and brought a prick of blood to the surface. You have to decide, she warned herself. Fast.
Rhiannon took a wobbling breath. She peeled off the wall and moved with a purpose down the hallway, tucking the knife away. At the door to his bedroom, she lowered the pack to the carpeted floor. Duncan was lying face down on the edge of the mattress. There was a tattoo on his back that she remembered: a bird with a marble-round eye and an open beak. Duncan’s thick, dark hair curled at his neck and ears. It needed a cut.
Her heart pounded in her rib cage. The weight of her tongue felt foreign, as though vomiting was not only likely but imminent.
God forgive me for this.
Rhiannon’s fingers closed around his neck. Duncan thrashed as she mounted his back, pressing her knees into his upper arms as she began to squeeze. Her eyelids closed just as tightly as her hands on his windpipe. All Rhiannon could think was how strangling was an ugly thing: the animal noises he made, the violent thrash of his head, Duncan’s nails scratching at her gloves, the sleeves and hood of her sweatshirt, but never finding skin or hair.
Do you know it’s me?
She cinched harder, just as the watcher wedged a knee under himself and lifted up. The pair of them bucked and tipped over onto their sides. A bed pillow struck the nightstand and knocked his alarm clock askew.
She didn’t let go. It was too late to late go. It was too late the minute she broke into his rented house.
His feet pedaled furiously. They stung her shins. He smelled of sleep and sweat and soap and the combination overwhelmed her. She began to daydream that it was training, that it was a rough spar, that it was just a pungent and painful dream and she was not a murderer, but the cording throat under her fingers was all too real. The crown of his head smashing into her cheekbone was all too real.
“It’s you or me,” she whispered in his ear. “And the world has no patience for cowards.”
Long after Duncan’s muscles loosened and the desperate twitching stopped, Rhiannon held on to make sure, and when she was certain he was dead she freed herself of his weight and rolled off the mattress. She made for the hall without a backward glance, stopping long enough to grab her pack and then careening off the doorjamb like a disoriented drunk.
It was easy to find a pencil and paper in Duncan’s things. She scribbled a quick note and placed it at the threshold of the girl’s bedroom. It read simply: “Go home.”
Iliana slept on.
As for Duncan’s soul, Rhiannon knew that with or without runes, it had been doomed to hell from the start.
I can’t do this now. I can’t.
What was she to do? Carve symbols into a man and let an innocent girl wake up to his cries for help? Slit his throat and leave him bleeding between his sheets so that Iliana could stumble down the hallway in the morning and find him dead? It wasn’t right, and yet there was little left to Rhiannon to do. Duncan had to go; even if she delivered proof of his wrongdoing to the Council on a silver platter and let them sort through the mess, it didn’t change a simple fact: Rhiannon had been dropped off at his doorstep and now she had to uphold her end of the bargain.
More than that, Rhiannon knew, she no longer wanted the Council to take care of it. She wanted to hurt him. Badly. She needed to make him pay.
She gently jabbed her thigh with the tip of the knife. Its sharpness cut through her jeans and brought a prick of blood to the surface. You have to decide, she warned herself. Fast.
Rhiannon took a wobbling breath. She peeled off the wall and moved with a purpose down the hallway, tucking the knife away. At the door to his bedroom, she lowered the pack to the carpeted floor. Duncan was lying face down on the edge of the mattress. There was a tattoo on his back that she remembered: a bird with a marble-round eye and an open beak. Duncan’s thick, dark hair curled at his neck and ears. It needed a cut.
Her heart pounded in her rib cage. The weight of her tongue felt foreign, as though vomiting was not only likely but imminent.
God forgive me for this.
Rhiannon’s fingers closed around his neck. Duncan thrashed as she mounted his back, pressing her knees into his upper arms as she began to squeeze. Her eyelids closed just as tightly as her hands on his windpipe. All Rhiannon could think was how strangling was an ugly thing: the animal noises he made, the violent thrash of his head, Duncan’s nails scratching at her gloves, the sleeves and hood of her sweatshirt, but never finding skin or hair.
Do you know it’s me?
She cinched harder, just as the watcher wedged a knee under himself and lifted up. The pair of them bucked and tipped over onto their sides. A bed pillow struck the nightstand and knocked his alarm clock askew.
She didn’t let go. It was too late to late go. It was too late the minute she broke into his rented house.
His feet pedaled furiously. They stung her shins. He smelled of sleep and sweat and soap and the combination overwhelmed her. She began to daydream that it was training, that it was a rough spar, that it was just a pungent and painful dream and she was not a murderer, but the cording throat under her fingers was all too real. The crown of his head smashing into her cheekbone was all too real.
“It’s you or me,” she whispered in his ear. “And the world has no patience for cowards.”
Long after Duncan’s muscles loosened and the desperate twitching stopped, Rhiannon held on to make sure, and when she was certain he was dead she freed herself of his weight and rolled off the mattress. She made for the hall without a backward glance, stopping long enough to grab her pack and then careening off the doorjamb like a disoriented drunk.
It was easy to find a pencil and paper in Duncan’s things. She scribbled a quick note and placed it at the threshold of the girl’s bedroom. It read simply: “Go home.”
Iliana slept on.
As for Duncan’s soul, Rhiannon knew that with or without runes, it had been doomed to hell from the start.